


Choices

by Gaffsie



Series: Choices [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Blackmail, Breathplay, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Incest, M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Underage Sex, nonconsensual breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 06:33:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17017560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gaffsie/pseuds/Gaffsie
Summary: Hiram Lodge gives FP Jones a choice.





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=658764#cmt658764) kinkmeme prompt: 
> 
> "Hiram finds out that FP is unnaturally close to his baby boy. He gives FP a choice: let Hiram have the boy when he wants it, or go to prison for being a pervert.
> 
> FP chooses to share.
> 
> Jughead is extremely unhappy about it. He hates Hiram and Hiram knows it, which is why he takes a lot of pleasure in fingering Jughead and making his cock leak and Jughead desperate for him. He loves choking him and marking him, filling him with cum, so when he goes back to FP, FP knows he isn't the only Daddy around."

This was not what Hiram expected when he ordered FP Jones' trailer to be put under round-the-clock surveillance. 

He expected pictures of the long line of shady lowlifes that FP Jones is in business with, giving him the intel he needed to crush the Jones patriarch under his heel once and for all.

This? This is so much better than that. This is enough to put Jones away for _life_ and to thoroughly drag his family's name through the mud, not that Hiram intends to do so. FP Jones is a lowlife thug, a smalltime crook, not nearly enough of a threat to waste this kind of ammunition on. 

No, this is an unexpected _gift_ ; one that Hiram intends to enjoy.

He takes his time before he sends for Jones. He wants to make the necessary preparations first. Besides, there's no hurry. Jones has no idea what's coming.

A couple of days later he's ready. He's working at his desk, wearing his favorite Tom Ford suit, when there's a knock on his door and FP Jones strolls into his study.

“Ah, Mr. Jones.” He smiles, showing teeth, and indicates the visitor's chair on the other side of his desk.

“Please, take a seat.”

Jones sits down the way he does everything; arrogantly, like his beat-up leather jacket and ratty jeans has any right sullying the fabric of Hiram's visitor's chair.

“I thought I'd made it clear I wanted nothing to do with your kind,” Jones says. 

Hiram's smile widens, and he gives him a mocking nod of his head. 

“Oh, I think these will change your mind.”

He reaches over for the thick manila envelope that's been lying like a promise on his desk since he put it there this morning, and with two fingers he slides it over to FP Jones. Jones frowns, confused, and Hiram watches with pleasure as he picks it up. He looks nonplussed, but not overtly worried, but he won't for much longer, Hiram knows. 

Jones pulls out the contents, glances at the picture on top of the pile, and promptly drops them all on the floor, like he's been _burnt_. All color has drained from his face, and he looks _stricken_.

Shame he didn't look at them all. They really are exceptional. Glossy high-res 8x10s, taken so professionally that you could see every mole on the boy's pale body, practically count every girlishly long eyelash.

Hiram's particularly fond of one in the middle of the sequence. They're both naked, Jughad's slim body pressed tightly against his dad's larger, hairier frame, his arms clinging to his daddy's shoulders as Jones fingers him open.

FP Jones is considered attractive by some, Hiram knows. His wife is certainly of that opinion, but it's not the sight of Jones that demands Hiram's attention; it's his son, his infuriating, pretty little son, who's got his head thrown back in bliss, eyes closed and mouth open on a moan as his dad's thick fingers enter him.

He hadn't really thought of Jughead Jones in those terms before, the boy being more of an infuriating complication than a being made out of flesh and blood, but reduced to just his body, to an obedient and needy little plaything for his father, he is exquisite.

Hiram has always been an avid collector of exquisite objects.

“What do you want,” Jones grits out, glaring at Hiram across the table, visually restraining himself from just leaping at Hiram's throat. 

Hiram smiles at him. Steeples his fingers, savoring the moment.

“This is a very lonely business, as I'm sure you can imagine.” He sighs theatrically.

“It strikes me that the pleasure of your son's company might be just the remedy I need.”

Jones looks livid now, and since Hiram doesn't think too highly of his intelligence, he gently adds, “I don't think I need to tell you what the alternative is.”

Jones is quiet for a while, gnawing on his thumbnail, obviously thinking things through, trying to come up with a way out that doesn't involve whoring out his son.

There is no other way out; Hiram made sure of that, and soon enough, Jones seems to come to the same conclusion. 

“What are your terms?”

“I'm a fair man; you can still have use of him.” He shrugs. 

“I know how important those... family moments are. I do, however, expect him to be made available for me when I demand it.”

He raises his eyebrow.

“I also expect complete obedience.”

Jones nods shakily. 

“I'll, uh, I'll talk to Jug.”

The outcome is obvious, Hiram knows, and by the look of him, Jones knows it too. The boy might hate and fear Hiram, but he loves his father, to a far higher extent than he deserves. Jones knows that, and evidently isn't above abusing it. He'll look appropriately sad and utter the expected self-deprecating lines about his son deserving so much better, and maybe he _should_ just take his punishment like a man, and his loyal little toy will just... eat. it. up, and martyr himself for his daddy. 

It's pathetic, really, but it does play right into Hiram's hands. 

Before Jones leaves, Hiram gives him the burner phone he'd procured specifically for this purpose.

“You can expect a call from me in a couple of days. At that point, you'll have an hour to send your son to my study.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That will remain our arrangement for the foreseeable future.”

He could just as easily give the phone to Jughead, but he wants his daddy to be the one to tell him when he needs to give himself over to Hiram's tender care. Wants the knowledge of just who owns the boy now to eat at them both.

Hiram waits for three days, then, after he'd made sure Veronica and Hermione are both out for the evening, he sits down at his desk, under the watchful gaze of his beloved daughter's portrait, and places a call to FP Jones.

30 minutes later, Jughead Jones is standing in his study, looking stiff and uncomfortable in his leather jacket and jeans. It's almost sweet the way he attempts to emulate his dead-beat father, but where FP Jones makes his leathers seem like a natural fit, on Jughead the effect is lacking. Maybe it's the ridiculous knit hat he's always wearing that ruins the effect, or maybe it's the fact that the boy is _soft_ in a way his dad never was, even at that age. Jughead's still a clever boy, and tenacious in his own way, Hiram knows. If he wasn't quite so soft-hearted, he'd make a worthy adversary. 

“Ah, Jughead,” Hiram greets him. “So good of you to join me.” 

He takes a sip of the rum from the glass he has been nursing for the last few minutes, and watches the way Jughead stands up taller under his gaze.

“The pleasure is all yours,” Jughead spits out, and Hiram has to smile.

“Well, yes,” he says, and Jughead looks startled, like he expected Hiram to deny it.

“I have no doubt I can make you _beg_ for it, but this arrangement your father has agreed to? It's on my terms; not his, and certainly not yours.”

“You _are_ here to please me, Mr. Jones, and if you fail, well, then your father will go to jail, and everyone will know why, won't they? “

Jughead nods, jerkily. His hands are clenched into tight fists at his sides, like he's ready for a fight. It's adorable, really.

“We understand each other then.”

Jughead nods.

“Use your words,” Hiram says, sharply. 

“Yes.”

Hiram frowns, and Jughead quickly tacks on a highly reluctant, “-sir.”

“I always knew you were smart.” Hiram says. He takes another sip from his drink. Swirls it around in his mouth, and lets the flavors bloom on his tongue. 

“Now, remove your clothes. - All of them.”

Jughead doesn't strip with any real elegance. He's not trying to make it sexy. He's just tugging off his clothes and tossing them on the floor piece by piece. The jacket goes first, and then the shirt he's got tied around his waist. Then his grey t-shirt. He has to bend down to untie his heavy black boots, and if it wasn't for the agitated way he's moving and the angry flush on his face, it would be the least affecting strip-tease Hiram's ever seen in his life. As it is now, the boy's obvious displeasure makes it amusing enough to watch. 

Piece by piece, his body is revealed, and soon he is standing in front of the desk in nothing but his hat. 

Hiram rolls his eyes and gets up from his seat. A few quick strides and he's standing right in front of the boy. He doesn't honestly think that Jughead is trying to defy him, but it's still immensely satisfying to slap him over the face, watch the way his face snap to the side from the impact.

“I said _all_ of it.” 

Jughead turns wounded and incredulous green eyes at him. With a sigh, Hiram reaches up and plucks the hat from his head himself. 

He tosses it on the floor. 

“Better,” he says, and it really is.

Jughead is glaring at him. His hands are once again clenched into fists at his side, but Hiram suspects it's mainly to fight the urge to cover himself with them.

He really is disarmingly cute. The serpent jacket and horrendous hat does decent job of hiding it, but stripped bare like this, with his shiny hair falling in a dark wave over his forehead, and wide green eyes glaring down at Hiram from under delicately arched eyebrows, his scowl just makes him look pouty, like a spoiled child denied a treat.

“Over the desk, I think,” Hiram says, and Jughead glances away from him, eyes stuttering on the portrait above them before landing on the wide oak desk.

He makes to move, so Hiram stops him with a hand on his chest. Slaps him again, just because he can, because he enjoys it, and because he wants Jughead to acknowledge the order for what it is.

“Yes, sir.” There's a fury in his voice that Hiram is well acquainted with coming from this boy, but it's never been quite so fun to hear before. Next time, Hiram thinks, he'll have Jughead kneel naked for him while he works. Make the humiliation and impotent fury build; make his release all the sweeter for it.

“That's daddy's good boy,” Hiram says, and pats his reddened cheek.

Jughead actually _growls_ at him, and stalks over to the desk, grabbing hold of it and bending minutely at the waist.

“Oh, Jughead.” Hiram shakes his head. “We both know daddy's little whore can do better than that.”

“Yes, sir.” Still angry, voice almost shaking with the force of it. Hiram wonders what it will take to make him lose his hold on the rage and slip into hopelessness. Wonders if Jughead knows that it would make his ordeal end quicker, wonders if he even cares.

Radiating displeasure, he sinks down on his elbows and arches his back, just like a good little fuck-toy should, putting his ass on display.

“Daddy's trained you well, I see.” 

There's no reply, so Hiram feels completely justified in delivering a hard smack to that round little ass. The sound echoes satisfyingly loud in the room, and Hiram knows that at some point he's going to have to make a whole session out of it, spank the boy until he's crying, and then fuck him open for good measure, rub his come all over the reddened skin.

But not today, because Jughead, being a clever boy, takes well to instruction.

“Yes, sir,” he says, and then, because he really is exceptionally bright, “thank you, sir.”

He looks very tense, like he expects Hiram to take him dry. It's understandable, considering their... _fraught_ history, but Hiram has no intention to ruin him _physically_. That's the problem with idealistic fools like Jughead, they don't understand that sometimes, pleasure hurts more than pain. He'll learn though; Hiram will make sure of it.

Hiram slowly and gently drags his fingers down Jughead's spine, liking the way the boy has to fight himself not to flinch away from his touch. The skin is smooth and supple under his touch, and Hiram admires his slim waist and skinny hips, the soft swell of his ass.

He picks out the small bottle of lube from his suit pocket, and squirts some of the content on his fingers. He puts one hand on Jughead's waist, and with the other, he seeks out the tightly furled ring of muscle and pushes in. He takes one finger easily, which doesn't surprise Hiram in the least. The second finger goes in without any real resistance either, Jughead squirming restlessly under his hand.

He could probably take Hiram's dick without any prep at all, already a full-fledged little whore for his daddy. He says as much to him, just for the pleasure of watching an angry flush spread down his neck.

“Yeah, his dick is bigger than yours, I guess,” Jughead shoots back, and Hiram smiles at the comment, twisting his fingers just so, hitting Jughead's prostate and making his breathing hitch.

“Oh, sweetheart, I thought you were smart enough to realize that size isn't everything.”

“Whatever, Napoleon.”

It's so cute the way he thinks that Hiram is going to let himself be manipulated by a sixteen-year old. Being friends with that dumb Andrews kid, he must realize that Hiram could overpower him easily, but maybe that's the point; make Hiram angry enough to lose control, to make it hurt. Make what's happening easy to compartmentalize.

He leans over him to whisper in his ear, his clothed body brushing against Jughead's naked one. In a mockery of intimacy, he tucks away a loose lock of hair behind his ear.

“It's funny you should say that. Your daddy was very fond of making fun of my height in High School, and now I own him, and I own you, and you'd do well to remember that.”

He thrusts his fingers inside him again, making sure to angle for his prostate. 

“Any more cute comments?”

“No, sir!” It comes out as a soft moan this time.

Hiram leans back and continues leisurely fucking into Jughead with his fingers. The boy's breathing has grown ragged, and every so often he can't hold back a whimper from escaping his mouth. 

With his free hand, he seeks out Jughead's dick, and as expected, he finds it hard.

“Enjoying yourself, slut?”

He tries to deny it, but Hiram's rubbing against his prostate, and his denial gets stuck on a breathless moan.

It doesn't take much after that; the boy is trained too well. Hiram hardly has to touch his dick, the fingers ruthlessly fucking into him doing most of the work. He moans with desperate abandon and comes all over Hiram's hand, before collapsing over the desk.

Hiram ruffles his hair, the boy's own come sticking to the dark strands.

“Say thank you,” he says. 

“Thank you, sir.” It's muffled and petulant sounding, and somehow he manages to make the 'sir' sound like an insult, but it doesn't matter. The point has been made.

Hiram unbuckles his belt and pushes down his pants and underwear past his hips. It's a relief to finally get his dick out, but that's nothing against the feeling of finally pushing into Jughead. He opens for him with ease, like he was made for it, and the glide is smooth and hot and just tight enough to feel spectacular.

Jughead still whimpers, no doubt over-sensitive so soon after his orgasm, but Hiram pays him little mind, just pushes in until his balls are resting against his ass. He admires the sight of Jughead's stretched hole around his dick, and then he pulls out entirely. 

He adds more lube, not because he thinks it's necessary, but because he wants to make this messy. Jughead no doubt came here on his bike, and he'll have to ride it home, the mess of come and lube leaking through his underwear. _Ruined_ , and Hiram hopes FP Jones is waiting for him, has to see his beloved little son like that, filled with another man's come.

All that lube makes the glide almost _too_ easy, but that's good. Makes it easier to keep fucking into the boy without feeling too good, the smooth rhythm enough to make Jughead's dick perk up again. Hiram's got both hands on his hips now, but he can still tell when Jughead gets into it, because he starts fucking _back_ , subconsciously chasing the pleasure of Hiram's dick fucking into him. 

The nasty-hot squelching sounds of flesh hitting flesh are mixed with the sounds of heavy breathing and Hiram's own sub-vocal grunts and Jughead's helpless moans, and he could come like that, just from the simple pleasure of a warm and smooth hole to fuck into, but first he wants something else. The boy's pale neck is on display, and it's so easy fitting his hands around it, pressing down just. there.

He panics, of course, tries to push Hiram off him, but Hiram is stronger, and his scrabbling for purchase doesn't really accomplish anything except tiring himself out. It would be so easy to end his life right now, and evidently Jughead's realizes that too, his desperate gasps for breath filling up the room. It's a power-trip, feeling the boy's pulse jumping frantically under his fingers, but he has no intention of making him pass out, and certainly not of killing him – why would he, when he's got the little whore just where he wants him?

He fucks into him one last time, presses down on his throat hard enough to leave bruises, and comes. With a satisfied grunt, he releases his grip on Jughead's throat. He pulls out his softening dick, noting that Jughead's hole is a mess, come and lube already seeping out.

Quickly and efficiently, he does up his pants again, not bothering with the belt.

Jughead is drawing desperate gulping breaths, and he doesn't fight him when Hiram manhandles him until they're facing each other again, Jughead hanging onto the desk like it's the only thing holding him up. 

He's red-faced and crying, but his dick is somehow still hard.

Hiram smiles at the sight, and the boy averts his eyes, humiliated. 

“It's been a pleasure,” he says. “Until next time, Mr. Jones,” and then he walks back to his seat at the desk and sits down with studied nonchalance, once again reaching for his drink.

He pretends not to watch as Jughead gets dressed, has to fight a smile at the way he cringes when he has to pull on his boxers over his half-hard dick. 

Somehow the _reverse_ strip-tease is even better, the boy trying so hard to cover up the evidence of their tryst, but not being fully able to. He still has come in his hair, and his hat doesn't cover it completely, his eyes are unnaturally bright and puffy from the crying, and there's a developing ring of bruises around his neck. Anyone who sees him will know what has happened to him. 

He lets him retreat in peace, but just as Jughead is about to leave the room, Hiram calls out, voice bright and friendly and false.

“Say hi to your daddy from me!”


End file.
